


The Red-Necked League

by Chiennoir



Series: The Adventures of Hamhock Holmes [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Humor, Mystery, Parody, Sherlock Holmes Parody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 12:46:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14213457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiennoir/pseuds/Chiennoir
Summary: Ever wonder what it would be like if Sherlock Holmes lived in a trailer park in Alabama?  Of course not, because that would be stupid. Fortunately, we have no problem with stupid, and that's just where we put him. This is a parody inspired by Arthur Conan Doyle's classic tale, "The Red-Headed League."  Co-written with my wonderfully witty husband, who really has been to Moultrie.





	1. Jay Dubya Wilson

I’d stopped by to check on my old friend, Sherman “Hamhock” Holmes, on a cool autumn day last year and walked it to find him chattin’ with a pudgy ol’ codger -- puffy cheeks, well-worn dirty overalls and hair as red as a sunburned robin. After gettin’ a cold beer and apologizing for the interruption, I was about half out the front door when Holmes grabbed me by the shirttail and pulled me back inside.

“Hey, there, Bubba! You’re right on time,” he said, in that tone that told me I was gonna have to do somethin’.

“You look busy.”

“Yep. real busy.”

“Then I’ll just go outside and set on the porch.”

“Like hell you will. Mr. Wilson, this feller here has been my partner and go-fer for a real long time. He can be a big help in solving weird little problems like this’n here.”

With that, the chubby old guy sorta struggled to stand up, and then decided it was too much like work. He gave me a quick “Howdy” and then thudded back down into his chair.

“Set yourself down, Bubba,” Holmes said to me. Then he proceeded to push back in his LazyBoy and tap his fingers together like he always did when he was cogitatin’ on something.

“Bubba, I know you like the peculiar stuff as much as I do. This here is another one I think you’ll be wantin’ to write up for the _Weekly Dogwhacker._ _”_

“Yep, you do tend to attract strange characters,” I answered, suddenly remembering the fat man in the chair.

“Like I told you the other day, it ain’t possible to out-peculiar real life. If you want to see strange, just roll down the window and spit.”

“And I believe I told you that you was full of it.”

“Yeah, you did,” he chuckled. “But I’ll wear you down over time. Every day with me is a trip through the Twilight Zone. Take ol’ Jay Dubya Wilson, here. He’s been tellin’ me some stuff that’s so weird, I swear on Aunt Edna’s bunion pads, I don’t know what to make of it.  How’s about startin’ from the top, Jay Dubya, so Bubba can hear the story, and I can make sure I heard what I thought I heard. You know, I thought I’d seen just about everything that a criminal could possibly think of, but this one beats all.

Wilson puffed out his chest like an ol’ banty rooster, and pulled out a folded-up newspaper page from the back pocket of his overalls. While he was focusin’ in on a certain little classified ad, I was focusin’ in on him, tryin’ to think like Holmes and make sure I didn’t miss anything.

The way I figured, I wasn’t missin’ a thing. The geezer looked like your average garden tool salesman -- fat, full of himself, and slow as molasses in February. His overalls were worn and baggy, and his wristwatch was one of them cheap digitals they give away with fast food deals. The only things I could see that were unusual about him were the fiery red color of his crewcut and a look on his face that told me his boxers was bunched up somethin’ fierce.

Hamhock Holmes noticed that I was noticin’ very little worth noticin’. He smiled, shook his head at me and said, “Not much there, Bubba, except for the in-your-face obvious. He dips snuff, worked the tobacco fields, has a satellite dish, has been to Moultrie, and spends a whole lot of time writin’ stuff down.  Except for that, I don’t know much at all about Mr. Wilson, here.”

Ol’ Jay Dubya Wilson just about jumped out of his chair. I pretty near busted a gut tryin’ not to laugh at him -- it seemed like his head was gonna explode.

“How in the name of Cousin Pearl’s holy sausage stuffer did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. I worked tobacco for years, but not since I had that run-in with a bunch of renegade fire ants.”

“Your hands, Mr. Wilson. They’re stained clean across with tobacco. If you was just a smoker, there’d only be stains between your smokin’ fingers.”

“Okay, then, what about that satellite dish and snuff comment?”

“Your boots came from the Shop T’ Home Network, and satellite is the only way to get that channel. When you first came in, I could see the round outline of a snuff tin in your back pocket.”

“Oh, I guess that kinda makes sense, but what about the writing?”

“Hell, man, you got ink stains all up and down your right arm. If you want to keep that a secret, you might want to consider washin’ up more than once a week.”

“Okay, Mister Smarty Britches, what about Moultrie?”

 “You’ve got a tattoo on your left arm. There’s only one place in the world that spells “Mama” with three Ms and a W: Johnny-Ray Jim-Bob’s Tattoo Parlor and Suds in Moultrie, Georgia.”

Jay Dubya Wilson started laughin’ like an asthmatic mule with a bad case of gas. “Well, cut off my legs and call me Shorty,” he said. “Here I thought you was real clever-like, but you ain’t all that after all.”

“Holmes looked at me and sighed. “Geez, Bubba, maybe I should’ve kept my mouth shut. _Atfay oybay isay ummerday anthay irtday._ I have to protect my reputation, after all.”

 Jay Dubya was fumbling with the newspaper.

“You havin’ trouble findin’ that there ad in the paper, Mr. Wilson?”  Holmes snapped impatiently.

“Just now got to it,” he said, stabbing the paper with a grimy finger. “Why don’t you read it your own self?”

I took the paper and read:

 _“_ _Wanted, redneck worker who wants to work, but not too hard. On account of Ezekiel Hogbugger’_ _s passing away some time back, we have an opening for someone who wants to make good money for doing diddly-squat. All real redneck men who can spell kind of good and are old enough to buy their own beer can come on down and try out for the job. Come in person, Monday morning at 11:00, to the office of the Red-Necked Bowling League, to Route 1, Napperville Trailer Park and Dump Station, Space #3.  Ask for Dunkin D.”_

Holmes laughed. “Weird, ain’t it? Now, Mr. Wilson, why don’t you go on and tell us about what happened when you answered this here ad?”

 

 


	2. The Red-Necked League

“Well, Mr. Holmes, I need the money somethin’ awful.” said Jay Dubya, “I have this little bait and tackle shop down by Cypress Creek. Business ain’t been so good lately, what with them Democrats raisin’ the price of fishin’ licenses an’ all. I used to be able to afford two worm diggers, but now I only have one, and it would be tough to pay him if he wasn’t new to the bait business and willin’ to work for half pay.” 

“Really? And who is this youngun who’s so eager to learn about red wigglers?” asked Holmes.

“His name is Vinnie Spaulding, and he’s not so young. He’s sharp as a tick’s tooth. He could make twice what I pay him and not even break a sweat. But if he’s happy, who am I to be puttin’ ideas in his head?”

“Why, indeed? It must be real hard to find somebody who’s willing to work for worm droppings. I think your half-price worm wrangler is too good to be true.”

“Oh, now, he ain’t one of them oddballs you see on the talk shows,” Wilson remarked. “He just happens to like worms. Loves spendin’ time with them. He won’t even let me down in the basement no more; says that my place is topside with the customers. That’s okay with me, ‘cause it smells -- well, let’s just say it’s real arrow-matic down there. I can hear him talkin’ to the bait sometimes, just like them worms was family.”

“He’s still with you, then?”

“Yessir. Anyways, the funny stuff started with this here advertisement. It was Vinnie hisself what come into the shop eight weeks ago today, wavin’ this paper in the air.”

“‘I wish I was qualified for this,’ he says, shovin’ the ad in my face.

“‘For what,’ I asks.

“‘Looks like they have another job opening down to the Red-Necked League. There’s money in it, Mr. Wilson, and for some real easy work. If. only I wasn’t born in California, I might just have a chance to get me some extra cash.’“

"‘Huh?’ I says. Y’see, Mr. Holmes, I don’t get out much, since my customers come to me rather than me havin’ to go to them. I mean, I thought about a night-crawler delivery service, but that didn’t make no sense, seein’ as they’d have to come back by the shop for hooks and sinkers and such.

“ ‘You mean you ain’t never heard of the Red-Necked League?’ Vinnie says, his eyes as wide as saucers.

“ ‘Nope,’ I says.“ "

"'Well, resole my sneakers and call me Goodyear,’ says he. ‘I reckon you are one of the most eligible folks around these parts.’            

“ ‘Yeah?’ I says. ‘And how much you reckon they want to pay?’

“ ‘Hell, man, do I look like an accountant? All I know is, I hear the money’s real good and you don’t have to work much at all.’

“Well, sir, you can bet that got my attention. The worm business ain’t what it used to be ever since that fertilizer plant explosion on the bayou a few years back. My place ain’t exactly crawlin’ with customers.”

He laughed like he’d just said somethin’ funny.

“Anyway, I says, ‘Tell me what you know about it.’

“ ‘Well,’ he says, shakin’ the ad in my face like it was Robert E. Lee’s will, ‘all I know is what it says here. I understand the Red-Necked League was started by somebody ‘way up north -- Memphis, I think. Some rich old cotton tycoon had this thing about lookin’ after all the rednecks of the world, like it was some kind of callin’. So, when he passed on, he left all his money in the hands of some lawyers in Mobile and told ‘em to look after rednecks like they was family. And like it says in the ad here, give ‘em good money for little work. Sounds like a deal to me.’            

“ ‘But geez,’ I says, ‘there’s gonna be hundreds of local folks there, not to mention all the tourists comin’ off the interstate to get gas at Stuckey’s.’

“ ‘Maybe,’ he says, ‘but what’ve you got to lose?’

“So I thought, what the hell, I’ll go check it out. We shut down the shop for the day and drove on down there. You won’t believe what we saw.”

Wilson sat and stared at us, like he wanted us to guess. I was busy tryin’ to guess how many fried chickens Ol’ Jay Dubya could eat at one sittin’, when Holmes spoke up. “I can’t imagine, Jay Dubya. Why don’t you tell us?”

“Well, sir, it was like half-price day down at Lowell’s Barber Shop and Smokehouse. Crewcuts and shotgun racks as far as the eye could see! Anyhow, Vinnie grabs me by the bib of my overalls and pulled me through that crowd, and right up to the front door of the ugliest trailer I ever did see. Even worse’n yours, Mr. Holmes.”

“Funny man, Wilson.” Holmes mumbled. “So, what happened after you got inside?”

“It was a normal enough trailer inside. There was this small feller sittin’ at the kitchen table, talkin’ to people one at a time. The rest of the folks was just waitin’ -- sittin’ around a flat-screen TV, watchin’ some informercial about inflatable toilets. I figured I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of gettin’ the job, but then the man noticed Spaulding wavin’ his arms like he was shooin’ horseflies. He stood up and came right over to us.

“ ‘This here’s Jay Dubya Wilson,’ my bait-digger told the man. ‘You won’t find a finer specimen in the whole of Alabama.’ I was right impressed that Vinnie would stick up for me like that. Anyway, the other fella walked all around me, lookin’ at this and pokin’ at that, and generally sizin’ up my redneckability, I reckon.

“ ‘I’m gonna have to ask you some questions, Mr. Wilson,’ said the little man. ‘Twice fooled by hillbillies, and once by a yuppie who’d seen Urban Cowboy. ‘

“Finally, he said, ‘I’m Dunkin D. Ross. Durn glad to meet you.’ And then he grabbed my hand and shook it so hard I thought he was tryin’ to find oil.

“He says, ‘I am the guy who manages the money for the Red-Necked League. It’s a tough job, but I get free burgers and beer.’

“He started laughin’ like a bird dog at a turkey shoot, and said, ‘All you gotta do is answer a few questions, and I’ll know if you’re the right man for the job.’

“I says, ‘okay.’

“He asks me, ‘What do you wear to your sister’s wedding, the wine cooler t-shirt or the light beer t-shirt?’

“I says, ‘the premium tequila tank top, of course! Nothin’ but the best for my sister!’

“He says, ‘Who’s more redneck, Buck Owens or Roy Clark?’“I says, without even havin’ to think about it, ‘Junior Samples.’

At this point, Holmes started countin’ out the change from his pocket. That’s always a sign that he’s off on some other planet, and it’s up to me to keep track of what’s being said. 

Wilson just kept on talkin’.

“Ross asks me, ‘Are you married, Mr. Wilson?’

“I says, ‘No, sir. But I got two girl cousins and a blue-tick hound.’

“He gives me a funny look and says, ‘Gotta start somewhere, I guess. But the League is supposed to be for the propagation of rednecks as well as their maintenance. It’s a shame you’re a single man.’            

“I felt like I’d been slapped with last week’s laundry. So I says, ‘My cousins are ugly, but the hound’s real cute.’

“After he thought on it a spell, Ross said not to worry none. ‘What the heck,’ he says. ‘You’re hired.’ And then he started shakin’ my hand all over again.

“I says, ‘Trouble is, I already have one business to look after.’

“Spaulding says, ‘Now don’t you worry none about that, Mr. Wilson. Worms are my life.’

“I says, ‘Okay, then. But what sort of hours and what kinda work are we talkin’ about here?’

“Ross says, ‘Your job is to do market research for the Bowling Channel. You have to be here when Balls of the Rich and Famous, Hosted by Gutter Bill starts, and can leave after Madonna’s Perfect Scores of the Week. The job pays $3.47 an hour.’

“I says, ‘No kiddin’? That even gets me home in time for supper.’

“Then he says, ‘But you have to be here every day, ‘cause your job is to write down everything that’s said on those programs, includin’ all the commercials and tests of the Emergency Broadcast System.’

“I couldn’t believe how lucky I was! The Bowling Channel!"

“He says, ‘You can set right here and use this table and chair, but you gotta bring your own pencil, Big Chief writing tablet, beer, and snacks. Can you start tomorrow?’

“I says, ‘Uh-huh.’“He says, ‘Then we’re all set! See you tomorrow!’

“Well, by the time I got home I figured it was all a big joke on Mr. Bait Guy, but I thought, what the heck. I stopped by the Grab ‘N Save to get the supplies, and showed up at the trailer about fifteen minutes before Gutter Bill came on. I was pleasantly surprised to see Dunkin there; he showed me how to use the remote, how to turn on the DVR, and how to jiggle the handle just right to keep the water in the toilet from runnin’ forever.

“Then he left and said he’d check on me from time to time, to make sure I was still there and that I really did jiggle the handle proper-like.

A week later, sure as snot from a cow’s nose, he dropped off the money for seven days’ work. Cash money, mind you! None of those IRS-notifyin’, not-valid-after-ninety-days, National-Dang-Bank of Birmingham paper checks.

For nearly two months it went on like that. I learned all kinds of stuff about bowling, Did you know that Johnny Cash bowled with hard rubber balls? But Madonna, she swears by plastic. Who knew? Then one day, it all came to an end.”

I could see that Holmes was tryin’ hard not to laugh. “To an end?”

“That’s what I said. When I got to the trailer, all ready to find out the rental shoe sizes of all the major celebrities, the door was locked, and there was a note, written on the back of a Piggly Wiggly grocery sack, duct-taped to the door! I got it here in my pocket somewhere.”

As Wilson fished in those dirty overalls for the note, I looked over at Holmes and hoped he didn’t want me to hold the darn thing. I was grateful when he asked Jay Dubya to read it himself.

“Thank you for shopping at Piggly-Wiggly,” he read.

Holmes just shook his head. “How ‘bout you turn it over to the other side, Jay Dubya?”

“Oh.” Wilson blushed. “Yeah. ‘The Red-Necked League is out of business as of today.’”

I looked at the note, then over at Holmes, then over at Jay Dubya, and Holmes looked at me and then at the note, then back to Jay Dubya, and we both busted out laughin’.

Wilson got all red in the face and cried, “That ain’t funny! They owe me a hunnert ‘n twenty-eight dollars and forty-five cents, and I’m left holdin’ the bag!”

That started Holmes and me laughin’ all over again.

Wilson started puffin’ like he was gonna have a litter of porcupines. “What’s so funny? I don’t have to sit here and be made a fool!”

Holmes pulled himself together enough to say, “Now, don’t you worry yourself, Jay Dubya. I wouldn’t miss this case for all the free spaces at the Bingo Hall. But you gotta admit it is kinda funny, what with you holdin’ that grocery bag and all.” He went to the fridge and opened up a couple of longnecks. “Here you are, Mr. Wilson. Have yourself a beer, sit back down, and tell me what you did next.”            

“Oh, in that case,” he whined and plopped back down into the armchair. “I didn’t quite know what to do. So I went to the landlord’s office at the trailer park and asked if they knew what happened to the Red-Necked League.

“He says, ‘Huh? What?’

“I said, ‘The Red-Necked Bowling League. You know, Dunkin’ D. Ross and all them other fellers at Space #3 few weeks back? 

“Then his eyes cleared as he remembered who I was talkin’ about.

“ ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘You must mean old man Morris. He’s just an artificial-kneecap salesman who needed a place to stay for a few weeks while his office was being fumigated. He left this morning.’

“ ‘Do you know where he went,’ I asked.“ ‘Back to his office, I reckon. Skeeter Pond Road, he told me, right next to the old cypress stump that’s shaped like Stonewall Jackson.’

“Well, Mr. Holmes, I headed straight there, but didn’t find neither him nor Jackson, just a little scrub-oak that looked a little bit like Jimmy Carter, and the oak tree wasn’t talkin’.”

Holmes was tryin’ hard to keep from snortin’ beer out his nose. “And then what?”

Wilson took a big swallow of beer. “I went home and asked Vinnie what he figured we oughta do. He said the check was probably in the mail.  But that ain’t good enough, Mr. Holmes. We’re talkin’ real money here! So, I knew my only chance was to come over and talk to you about it.”

“Smart man,” said Holmes. “It’s a strange case, no doubt about that. I’ll be glad to  check into it for you. From what you’ve said, there’s gotta be somethin’ criminal goin’ on.”

“And I’m out $128.45 a week!”

“I think you oughta be glad to get what money you did from the Red-Necked Bowling League,” said Holmes. “Besides, you got a whole lot of useful bowling tips. You ain’t lost nothin’ at all, Jay Dubya.”

“Well, I suppose, but I still want to know what it was all about.”

“Yep,” Holmes agreed. “Me, too. Let me ask you a few things. How long had your bait-digger been with you before he showed you that ad?”

“About a month, I think.”

“How’d you come about hiring him?”

“He answered my ad for a bait digger trainee.”

“Was he the only one to apply for the job?”

“Well, he was the only one who hadn’t already been rejected by the local Burger Boy. Said he had ‘higher aspirations.’ I thought it meant he had asthma and couldn’t work the deep fryer.”

“And what does this ol’ boy look like?”

“I dunno, kinda small, but wiry. Moves real quick, like he’s had one too many cups of coffee. He’s clean-shaven, about thirty years old, and he has this funny-lookin’ quail-shaped scar on his forehead. Said it was from a huntin’ accident he didn’t want to talk about.”

Holmes sat straight up like he had a digestive problem and didn’t want anybody to know. “Aha! I thought so!  Does he have a pierced ear?”

“Matter of fact, he does.”

“Hmm!” Holmes hummed like that when he was latchin’ on to somethin’. After a spell of cogitatin’, he asked, “Does he still wrangle your worms?”

“Sure does. I just left him there, in fact.”

“And he’s done a good job for you while you was off watchin’ the Bowling Channel?”

“Nobody’s complained. But like I said before, that’s never a very busy time of day.”

“Good enough,” Holmes said as he helped Wilson to his feet. “Today’s Saturday. I’ll let it percolate in my head over the weekend and talk to you on Monday.”


	3. A Three-Plug Problem

After Wilson had gone, Holmes turned to me and asked. “Well, Bubba, what do you think?"

“Beats me. His neck don’t really look all that red, to tell you the truth.”

“You know,” said Holmes, “ The more peculiar it looks on the outside, the less mysterious it really is on the inside.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I’d had just about enough thinkin’ for one day.

“It means I can’t waste no time on this one.”

“So what’re you gonna do?” I asked.

“Get out the Redman,” He answered. “This here’s a three-plug problem, so don’t bother me for the next hour or so.”

Holmes reclined all the way back in his LazyBoy, the triple chaw of Redman puffin’ his cheek out like a chipmunk’s. He closed his eyes and appeared to be sleepin’, except he wasn’t makin’ diesel engine sounds. I’d pretty near nodded off myself, when he suddenly shot up out of his chair like a toad on a hotplate, opened the door, and spat the chaw into the neighbor’s begonias.

“Buddy ‘Sackbritches’ Smith is playin’ fiddle down at the Moose Lodge this afternoon,” he remarked real casual-like. “You wanna go?”

“Sure,” I replied. I didn’t have nothin’ better to do, and Buddy plays a mean “Orange Blossom Special.”

“Then grab your cap and let’s go. You drive, since I’ve been drinkin’ beer. I hear that Buddy’s brought along his cousin, Dwayne ‘Oscar’ Myers and the Polka Generation. It’s contemplatin’ music, and my bellybutton’s callin’ collect!”

We rode along the bayou as far as Alder’s Gate. After we got to town, we parked at the public boat ramp and crossed the road so we could survey the scene that Jay Dubya had told us about earlier in the day.

There was pink aluminum siding on every shop, home and doghouse as far as the eye could see. Azalea bushes popped up along the sidewalk, and the rich smell of frying pork wafted heavily through the air.

At the corner of “Walk” and “Don’t Walk” was a particularly ratty looking shop. Three smiling neon earthworms wrapped around each other and did a funny little dance over a block-lettered sign that said “Wilson’s Bait ‘N Stuff.”  Holmes stopped in front of the place with his head cocked to one side like a beagle on a scent. His eyes went all squinty and he walked along the gutter for a while, turned around and headed back, all the while lookin’ closely at the shops. Finally, he stopped in front of Jay Dubya’s place again, and, after stompin’ his foot several times on the sidewalk, opened the door.

A right smart lookin’ little feller came up from the basement at the sound of the bell. He greeted us with a wide smile and a handful of red wigglers. “Come on in. Say hello to the boys!”

“Thanks kindly, but we’re not in the market for any bait today. We were just wonderin’ what’s the best time of day for catchin’ stumpknockers,” Holmes said in his best fishin’ voice.

“This time of year, it’s best to start at about six in the morning, They’re biting good on midnight specials. Use a cane pole.”            

“Thank you kindly,” Holmes said with a tip of his cap as we left the shop.

The feller smiled at us and shut the door.

“Bright young man,” Holmes remarked as we walked away. “Not the smartest crook in the county, but in the top three or four. And he knows his stumpknockers, too.”

“You already know all that about stumpknockers,” I said. “Oh, I get it. You wanted to get a look at this half-price bait digger, I suppose.”

“Not his face so much,” Holmes answered. “His knees.” 

“Oh? And were you impressed?”

“I saw what I thought I’d see.”

“And, while we’re on the subject of weird stuff you do, why’d you stomp on the sidewalk back there?”

“Heck, Bubba, it’s time to be payin’ attention, not jabber-jawin’ like schoolgirls on a field trip. There’s some real bad folks ‘round these parts. We know a little bit about stumpknockers; now let’s check out what’s on dry land.”

We looked all around, seein’ what little there was worth lookin’ at along the street. It was a lot like a trailer park without the wheels, as far as I could tell, but that wasn’t good enough for Hamhock Holmes.

“Lemme see,” he said, looking around. “I need to remember the order of the buildings here. It’s a hobby of mine to know the location of every public restroom in town. Now if I recall correctly, there’s the Redman Outlet Store, Donna Jo’s Topless Lending Library...”

“A topless lending library?”

“Well, sure. Why do you think they call it a strip mall?” He elbowed me in the ribs. “Now help me out here, Bubba. I seem to have drawn a blank.”

We took a few steps toward the next building, and I stopped as cold as yesterday’s blue plate special. Comin’ out the open door were the unmistakable strains of a Hammond organ playin’ “Jump Start Me Jesus, My Battery’s Fulla Sin.”

“I know this place,” I said, and only had to look once at the sign. “It’s the Freeway to Heaven Teleministry and Fruitcake Company.”

“That explains a lot,” said Holmes. “Never could tolerate them T.V. preachers. These stingy boogers ain’t even got a public restroom. Ask ‘em if you can use the facilities, and they hand you a collection plate.”

“And next door,” I continued, before he decided to elaborate any more, “is the Happy Weenie Hot Dog Stand. Then there’s Earl’s Used Car Lot and Line-Dancing Studio. That takes us into the next block.”

“Well, Bubba,” Holmes said, practically dragging me down the street, “Let’s trade in the Happy Weenie for Dwayne ‘Oscar’ Myers. I say we head off to polka land, where all is beer and bratwurst, and there are no red-necked worm wranglers to mess with our heads.”

All afternoon, Holmes sat on a plastic folding chair, dreamily sucking on a beer and picking pork rind crumbs out of his teeth. Dwayne’s “Pulled Pork Polka” bounced off the walls of the Moose Lodge and thudded across the dance floor.  Holmes was a happy man.

Now, Holmes ain’t your average beer-drinking mystery solver. As I watched him listening to the music, I could almost smell the rubber burnin’, he was thinkin’ so hard. When my buddy’s face gets all relaxed like he’s been on the receiving end of a tranquilizer dart, it usually means he’s getting himself ready to face something really dangerous.

After the last polka was polkaed, Holmes turned to me and said, “I don’t suppose you’ve got other stuff to do tonight, do you, Bubba?”

I said, “I been meanin’ to get the oil changed in the Buick for about two years.”

Holmes nodded. “This bait business is going to open up a real can of worms.

”“What do you mean by that?”

“There’s big crime afoot, or more likely, underfoot. I got a feelin’ that we’re gonna be just in time to keep the criminals from criminatin'. If your wife wouldn’t mind, I’d sure appreciate your help later on tonight.”

“Of course,” I replied. It was Saturday. Elva-Marie would be watchin’ her _Babies ‘N Beauty Pageants_ marathon, and I’d just as soon not be around for that.  “When?”

“About ten o’clock. And Bubba -- bring along your shotgun and a handful of shells.” 

 


	4. Freeway to Heaven

Now, I ain’t exactly the dimmest bulb on the Christmas tree, but I always felt pretty stupid hangin’ out with Hamhock Holmes. I saw the same stuff he saw, heard the same stuff he heard, even drank the same kind of beer he did, but I didn’t have a clue what was going on. So, as the old Buick coughed up cloud after cloud of burnt oil, I asked myself lots of questions. What was gonna happen at ten, and why did he want me to bring the shotgun? Where were we going, and what were we gonna do there? Should I really get the oil changed in the Buick, or just wait a few more years? I had figured out that Jay Dubya’s worm digger trainee was some kind of criminal, but doin’ what sort of crime? After a while, I got tired of thinkin’ and realized I’d gotten lost. Once I’d stopped kickin’ myself for gettin’ lost, I started kickin’ myself for all the trouble I’d be in with Elva-Marie. If I showed up late for dinner on _Babies ‘N Beauty Pageants_ night, I’d never hear the end of it.  So, I focused my attention on getting back home and decided not to worry about the mystery until later on.

I got to Holmes’s place about a quarter to ten and noticed a county sheriff’s car parked out front. As I walked into the living room, I saw that Holmes had invited others to join in the fun. I recognized one of them as Deputy Beaufort T. Jones. The other guy looked pretty familiar too, with his fancified hairdo, silver sequined jacket, and canary-eatin’ smile. 

“Hey, there, Bubba!” shouted Holmes, who was puttin’ on his night-sleuthin’ windbreaker. “You know Deputy Jones, I believe. Let me introduce you to the Reverend Otis ‘Goodnews’ Happywhether, the man with the keys to the building.”

“The keys to the front door of God’s truck stop,” said Happywhether, shaking my hand. “I just hope your friend here ain’t chasing a tractor in a tornado. I’m giving up bingo night with the widow women for this.”

“Don’t you worry about Holmes, Reverend,” said Deputy Jones. “His methods are kinda strange and a bit too intellectual for my shoot-first nature, but once in a while he does get pretty lucky.”            

“I’ll take your word for that,” the reverend said reverently. “It’ll be the first Saturday in years that I’ve missed my time with the widows.

“I think you’ll find that tonight’s game is worth much more to you and your ministry than any bingo tournament,” said Holmes. “Tonight, I predict we’re gonna save your mail-in donations and maybe even help you unload some of last year’s fruitcakes. And, Deputy Jones, you’re gonna get to arrest one of the baddest bad guys this county has ever seen.”

“And who might that be?” I asked.

“‘Cautious’ John Clay,” Jones said, almost droolin’ with anticipation. “Murderer, thief, and sidewalk spitter! Not many people have even seen him. They say he comes from old money -- real good family. I understand his great-granddaddy was mayor of Clayburgh, the town that sunk in the Great Swamp Mystery of 1927.”

“In that case,” Holmes declared, “I’ll make sure you’re the first one to greet him tonight, Deputy. He may be royalty as far as history is concerned, but he’s a royal pain in the neck to law-abiding citizens. Well, I reckon it’s time to get started. Y’all go on ahead in the patrol car. Bubba and me will tag along in the Buick.”

Hamhock Holmes didn’t have a whole lot to say as we bounced along the bayou on our way back into town. He did manage to hum a few of the tunes we’d heard earlier that day, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was gettin’ pretty tired of polkas.

“We’re gettin’ close,” he said, sensing that I was just about ready to throw an old hamburger wrapper at him if he didn’t stop humming.

“This Reverend Happywhether is an interesting feller, and really does have a personal stake in all this. He got his calling to serve the Lord when he was drivin’ monster trucks for a living, you know.”

“Oh?”

“Yep. It’s quite a story. He was jumping his 1982 modified Toyota, Li’l’ Big Truck, over fourteen cars and a high school cheerleading squad when somethin’ went wrong. The legend goes like this: his truck flipped over, and as he was fallin’ headfirst toward the thirteenth car, he shouted, _‘Jesus Christ!’_ ”

“Holy cow, Holmes! Was he killed?”

“Bubba. Did he look dead to you?”

“Oh.”

“As I was sayin’, he was fallin’ headfirst toward that unlucky number thirteen car, and shouted out, ‘Jesus Christ!’  Just when he thought all was lost, he heard a voice boomin’ out of the dashboard. _‘WHUT?!?’_ was all it said, and Happywhether knew he was in the presence of God.”

Holmes wasn’t gonna catch me twice in a row. I said, “What if it was just somethin’ bein’ said on the car radio at the same time?”

“Because, my dear Bubba, Li’l’ Big Truck didn’t have a radio.”

“Ohhhhh.”

“From that moment on, he has been called The Reverend Otis ‘Goodnews’ Happywhether, haulin’ a heavenly one-way load for the Lord. His teleministry brings in hundreds of thousands of dollars a week, and lately he’s been makin’ even more money thanks to the sale of Eula May Nutstuffer’s Lighter’n Concrete Fruitcakes.

“Holmes, this is all well and good, but if this guy is so dangerous, why’d you invite  Deputy Jones instead of the sheriff?”

“Well, Bubba, it’s like this. Jones ain’t quite as experienced as the sheriff when it comes to police work, but he ain’t afraid of nothin’. He’s like a pit bull. Once he gets hold of somethin’, he don’t let go till dinnertime.”

“Here we are, Holmes. And there they are, waitin’ for us.”  As we got out of the car, I noticed that the Buick looked like month-old roadkill parked next to the Reverend’s gleaming white Lincoln with its gold-plated bumpers and its “PrayN4U” prestige plates.

The Reverend Happywhether showed us around to the back where the service entrance was. He unlocked the door and then began to sing into a high-security voice recognition system. I could’ve sworn he sang, “Shall we gather in Bermuda.”

As the Reverend pulled open the heavy stainless steel doors, the smell of cash and fruitcakes slapped us hard in the face. We entered the building through a little corridor, kinda like an airlock from an old sci-fi movie.

The preacher had to lock the outside door before we could proceed. We felt the floor give a little, and he explained, “We’ve just been weighed. When we leave, we’ll get weighed again and had better not have gained any weight. If we’re heavier goin’ out than comin’ in, we’ll be locked in until my security team comes to unlock the door. It keeps out the devil’s temptation to help yerself to the cash or fruitcake.”

Suddenly there was a heavenly light from above, which spread out into the outline of an elevator door. Once we was all tucked safely inside, Holmes had the honor of pressing the “down” button.            

When the door opened, we found ourselves in the Freeway to Heaven nerve center. There was change counters and check endorsers and computer screens spread out as far as the eye could see. The room itself was old and musty, with wooden floors and big beams that groaned with every step we took.

“Ain’t this a sight, Bubba?” asked Holmes with a touch of boyish excitement that I’d never seen in him before. “I knew these things was down here, but never had a chance to see ‘em until right now.”

“What’re you talkin’ about, Holmes?” I just has to ask. I was more confused than Uncle Jack at an AA meeting.

“This is the main line tunnel of the old Valucia County Underground Railroad from Civil War days. This tunnel used to connect up with dozens of safe houses that helped escaped slaves and Yankee soldiers get out of the county and into friendly territory up north.”

“You do know your history, Mr. Holmes," Happywhether sang in his best preacher voice. “Over a hunnert years ago, the rights of all God’s children were bein’ protected right here where we stand. I wanted to use these holy holes to continue doin’ the work of the Lord.”

“Saved a lot on construction costs, too, I suspect,” said Holmes.

“Construction costs don’t mean squat when you’re workin’ for God,” scolded the reverend. “Besides, just listen to this quality workmanship.” He pounded loudly on a plank wall with his fist.

“Don’t do that!” hissed a now tight-lipped Holmes. You just might’ve screwed this whole thing up! Y’all just sit down and be quiet.”

Holmes listened closely for a few seconds, decided no harm had been done, and took a seat on an overstuffed mail bag.

“I figure we got about an hour to wait,” he said. “They gotta make sure that Jay Dubya is sound asleep before they can get busy. You see, Bubba, the good reverend here has taken advantage of the natural vault-like qualities of this place; he gets a lot of cash mailed to him, and he has to have a place to keep it between bank deposits.”

“It’s also a good place to store the fruitcakes,” Reverend Happywhether whispered. “We keep them in their own storage facility right down yonder.” He pointed to the far end of the tunnel.

“How many fruitcakes do you sell, Reverend?” I asked quietly.

“Oh, we ship about a thousand every week, more during the holiday rush.”

“So the cash is stored in this room, and the cakes is kept separate?”

“Yep. We keep em’ both in these big purple plastic Rub-R-Made storage tubs, because it keeps the cash dry and the cakes as moist as the year they was made. They weigh about the same. We’ve kept ‘em in different rooms ever since the time we took the wrong containers to the bank. Do you have any idea how hard it is to deposit a hunnert pounds of fruitcake?”

“Shhh,” Holmes warned. “We’re gonna have to be real quiet now. And turn off all them flashlights. I can hear sounds down there past the wall.

“Bubba, you probably ought to go ahead and load the shotgun. If they’re armed and decide to shoot, it’ll be up to you to wing ‘em first.”

I placed the loaded gun on top of an industrial-sized paper shredder, and crouched down behind it. Holmes and the others switched their flashlights off until that tunnel was darker than the inside of an Angus bull. My nerves was all on edge from from the excitement of the mystery and the quart of boiled coffee I’d had after dinner.

Holmes whispered, “The only way for them to escape is by going back the way they came, through Jay Dubya’s shop. I hope you’ve got that little problem covered, Jones.”

“You betcha. My cousin T. Tommy and his two blue tick hounds are waitin’ just outside the bait shop like you asked.”

“Good. We got this pipeline stopped up tighter’n a hair clog in Dolly Parton’s bathtub. All we can do now is wait.”

And wait we did. It seemed like we was sittin’ in the dark for days. The only sound was that of Deputy Jones’s stomach explaining to him that he was a half-dozen jelly donuts behind schedule.             Then we heard another sound, off in the distance. At first I thought it was mice, but it soon became clear that it was somebody, not something, makin' those noises.

I knew that Holmes was standing over there, beside himself with anticipation, just waitin’ for the right time to strike.

The sounds got closer and closer. Then, suddenly, they got fainter. Then came the sound of splinterin’ wood, which meant the bad guys was breakin’ in someplace where we wasn’t.

Holmes whispered urgently. “”Quick, Reverend! What’s in that room just behind the employee toilets?”

“It’s full of returned fruitcakes. We can’t resell ‘em in the states, so we put ‘em all in tubs marked ‘Honduras Christmas Fund’. Why?”

Holmes started laughin’ right out loud. “We got this crime all worked out, fellas.  We don’t even have to hurry to chase ‘em down.”

Holmes waited, listenin’ to the sounds comin’ from behind the restrooms. When he figured it was the right time, he shouted, “Hurry, Deputy Jones, before they get away!”

There was a while lot of bangin’ and crashin’ from the returned fruitcakes room, followed by dead silence.

“I bet that room opens directly onto a loading dock, don’t it?” asked Holmes, in that tone of voice that said he already knew the answer.

“Why, yes, it does,” replied the reverend. 

“Good. I’ll give ‘em until about...now! Let’s go fetch us some bad guys!”

We retraced our steps through the tunnel and up in the elevator, weighed out through the airlock, and pushed open the stainless steel door. Holmes looked at the ground over by the loading dock.

“This way!” he shouted. We hopped into the police car and were off.

“No need to rush,” he told Deputy Jones. “They won’t get far.”

And right he was. About a mile down the road, on the way to Deadturtle Creek, we came across two men, doubled over in the dirt, groanin’ like they was givin’ birth to Toyotas. Next to their car was an opened purple storage tub and an unwrapped fruitcake.

“It’s no use, ‘Cautious’ Clay,” said Holmes. “Give yerself up.”

“Ohhhhhhhh, God, make it stop,” he wailed, “make it stop! And check on my pal there... is he okay?”

Holmes dug in his pocket and produced a roll of antacid tablets. “Here, Clay. These’ll take the edge off.”

Nice thing about Holmes -- he was always polite, even to a criminal.

After a couple of gaseous belches, Clay stood up and said, “That’s better.  Watch it with those handcuffs, deputy. My great-granddaddy was the mayor of Clayburgh, you know.”

“Is that so,” said the deputy, snapping the cuffs around Clay’s wrists.

“Deputy Jones, you may now escort our esteemed celebrity down the red carpet to his waiting limousine.” Holmes said, opening the door to the police cruiser. He could sure be a cocky buzzard when he’d just solved a case.

Jones was thrilled to be gettin’ the credit for arresting one of the most notorious criminals in the county, but he also had a question.

“Mr. Holmes, how’d you know they’d be here waiting for us?”

“Elementary, my dear deputy. I did a scientific study on the effect of fruitcake on the human anatomy. Fruitcake, especially after it’s been sittin’ around for over a year, tends to gain density the longer it sits. It’s like a black hole with green candied cherries in the middle. Anybody eatin’ it will be pulled to the ground by the weight as the density increases to fill the surrounding container. In this case, the bellies of the crooks.

“Besides, I know all about Clay and his methods. Once he figured out they didn’t have cash but fruitcake, maybe he insisted that they get rid of the evidence by consuming it. Or maybe they was just hungry. I dunno.”

We all laughed so hard we nearly fell over. “I can just imagine the looks on their faces,” I said. “It must’ve been like somebody dropped a hundred-pound sugar cube down their throats.”

“How can I ever repay you, Mr. Holmes, for saving my ministry? Would you and your partner here like a fruitcake?”

“I’ve been bumpin’ into Clay every now and again for that past few years,” Holmes said. “It’s enough for me just to have that guy off the streets. I’ll ask you to reimburse us for beer and gas money; cash, if you please. But other than that, I’ve just had more fun than a cactus in a whole roomful of balloons.”

 


	5. Epilogue

 “So you see, Bubba,” Holmes explained as we finished off the last cold beers he had in his fridge, “it was as obvious as a skunk in a magnolia tree that the ad for the Red-Necked League was just an excuse. It didn’t make any sense to have Jay Dubya copy down all that stuff from the Bowling Channel. After all, you can mail-order them transcripts from someplace in Colorado for less than you could pay him. “So, of course, it was all a scam to get Jay Dubya out of the bait shop for a while every day. You were right about Jay Dubya not bein’ much of a redneck. Dunkin’ Ross weren’t one neither.”

“How’d you know that?” I asked, swirlin’ the last of my beer around in the bottom of the bottle.

“Those questions he asked! Heck, any real redneck woulda known that Jay Dubya’s answers were more suited to a hillbilly. Junior Samples!” he snorted. “Ridiculous!”

“So,” I said, “It was all just a scam.” 

“Yep. Clay figured he’d invest a little money if it meant he could haul off tens of thousands of dollars in cold, hard cash. He was probably stealing the $128.45 from the cash register, anyway.             

“And, when I learned that Clay was working for half-pay, it was clear as armadillo spit that that he just wanted to get Wilson out of the shop so he and his buddies could go to work.”

“I don’t understand.” 

“Well, given that there ain’t that much excitement in the bait business, combined with Wilson’s observation that his assistant loved being in the basement, made me start to cogitate on what really was goin’ on. Then I remembered about the Underground Railroad and all them tunnels.  That’s when we had to go and see for ourselves. I musta confused you no end when I pounded on the sidewalk.  I was listenin’ for tunnels. When I asked Clay about the stumpknockers, I wanted, first, to make sure it was him. And when I saw all the stains on his knees, I knew we had him dead to rights. We just had to catch him in the act.”

“But how did you know he was gonna try it tonight?” I asked.

“Well, since they suddenly closed the League office, it meant they was pretty much through with their tunnelin’, and they was gonna want to get done and gone. Saturday night was the best time to break in. For a preacher, Saturday is the day of rest, not Sunday. So they knew that nobody’d be around tonight and they could take their time gettin‘ away.”

“You figured it out pretty good, Holmes,” I admitted.

“Yeah, I suppose. It kept me from being completely bored.” He yawned. “Dang, I’m losing interest already. It seems like I spend all my time tryin‘ to keep from bein‘ just another common crime fighter.”   

“Holmes, you are a friend to mankind.” 

“Maybe so,” he sighed. “My granddaddy from New Orleans used to say, _‘L’homme n’est rien_ _\- l’oeuvre - tout.’”_

“Come on, Holmes. You know I don’t speak Cajun.”

“It’s French. It means, ‘a man ain’t nothin’ without his work.’” 

“Your granddaddy was a wise man.”

My friend settled back in his LazyBoy and smiled. “He also used to say, ‘Take all you want, but eat all you take.’ He was in the all-you-can-eat restaurant business, you know.”


End file.
